


Frisson

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Road to Home [8]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ASMR, Autonomous sensory meridian response, Makeup, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 21:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's pleasant, tingly sensation at watching Donna put on make-up leads to a pretty surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frisson

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this series before Season 3 of "Sherlock," so occasionally things don't jibe with new canon, in order to maintain the integrity of the work I'm creating.
> 
> You need not be a fan of Doctor Who to enjoy these stories; they are primarily Sherlock stories.
> 
> John and Donna's story began in "Date Mates;" other stories in the same timeline as the "Road to Home" series include "In Scandinavia," and "Anti-Clockwise."
> 
> Thanks for reading!

“In here, Pet,” Donna called from the master bath, where she was unwinding her hair from hot rollers, “I’m getting ready to go out.”

She heard Sherlock’s languid footsteps as he approached her bedroom from the foyer. “Are you decent?” he intoned, with a quick rap on her partly-opened bedroom door.

“In the way you mean, yeh,” she replied cheerfully. “Come in if you want.” In the mirror, she watched him enter the room and approach the open door to the bath. “How’s your day?” she asked, proffering her cheek for Sherlock to kiss, which he dutifully did.

Sherlock sighed. “Bored. Need a case. You don’t know anyone recently murdered in fascinating fashion, do you?”

“Afraid not,” Donna grinned. “I’ll let you know.”

“Out where?” he asked, in response to what she’d said earlier about getting ready to go out. She was finally starting to get the hang of the way Sherlock seemed to carry on several conversations simultaneously, sometimes over spans of days, not always with the person to whom he was currently speaking.

“My mate Vicki’s birthday. They’ll be drinking—“ she patted her so-far-still-cute, five-month baby bump “—I’ll just be dancing. And arranging all the taxis home, most likely.”

“Sounds dreadful.”

“Lucky you, you’re not invited.”

Sherlock was in shirtsleeves; the weather was hinting at spring about every third day now, and it had been gloriously sunny and warm. He took a few steps into the huge bathroom, leaned over the double vanity (John’s side: razor, mug with soap and brush, toothbrush, black plastic comb; Donna’s side: department store cosmetics counter explosion) and picked up a glass bottle of cherry-red nail varnish. He sniffed the label, wrinkled his nose, then lifted the bottle near his ear and tapped it with the edges of his fingernails a few times (he closed his eyes while he did this) before setting it back down with a glass-on-marble clink.

“Pull up a chair, we’ll have a chat,” Donna suggested, indicating a tufted stool tucked under the vanity counter. Sherlock slid it out with his foot, sat down with one elbow resting on the countertop. Donna had finished with her rollers and was brushing her hair, pumping some kind of spray over it as she went.

“I used to watch my mother do this,” Sherlock said, gesturing toward the scattered items of Donna’s toilette. “She was on a lot of committees, always charity balls and the like. There was a lot of. . .upkeep.” He picked up the spray bottle Donna had just set down, sniffed the spout. “Her hair was quite. . .” his long-fingered hands described orbits around his head, “Big.”

Donna was stroking moisturizer up along her neck, then in sweeping circles over her cheeks and chin. “Upkeep is the right word for it,” she said. “There’s no such thing as a low-maintenance woman, Pet; never let Them tell you different. Only high-maintenance ranging all the way up to impossible to live with.”

They were quiet a moment while she finished with the moisturizer and spun the lid back in place.

“My girlfriends and I used to spend hours getting ready to go out, all jammed into one bedroom listening to Madonna, or elbowing each other away from a shaving mirror in a bath the size of a cupboard,” Donna reminisced. Sherlock had picked up the moisturizer jar, twisted the lid back off, held it under his nose. “That stuff costs more than caviar, Pet,” she said, “Use it judiciously.” She winked. “The getting ready was almost more fun than the clubs.”

Sherlock dabbed the tip of his middle finger into the cream, rubbed the resultant white bead against the pad of his thumb. Donna leaned on the countertop with both hands, looking sideways at him over one shoulder. “Look how you’re melting,” she commented.

“What do you mean, ‘melting?’” Sherlock demanded, but not harshly.

“You came in here with your shoulders up by your ears,” Donna replied. “Forehead all creased—you should watch that; it’ll stick that way—and now.” She drew a line across her own forehead with one fingertip. “This is all gone. And your shoulders are down.”

Sherlock set the jar back on the countertop, shrugged his shoulders slightly.

Donna’s hand dove into her overstuffed make-up bag and she began rummaging for a little pot of gel eyeliner and a brush. Sherlock visibly shivered.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Fine. I find it very relaxing,” he admitted, “Watching this process. I’ll leave if you want me to.”

“No, it’s fine.” She found what she’d been looking for, set the liner and the brush down on the counter. “Wait, did I not see something on one of the morning chat shows about this? People getting all tingly when they watch online videos of people whispering, brushing hair, and, what?, like, crinkling paper. Is it that?”

Sherlock huffed out a breath, seemed to weigh up a decision whether to continue the conversation. He glanced toward the open door, then back at the scattershot tableau of Donna’s products on the vanity top. “It’s called Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response.”

“Yes! That’s it!” Donna grinned, then frowned and leaned backward away from him. “Oh, god, it’s not like an orgasm, is it?”

“No,” Sherlock said firmly, with a tone that cut off further discussion along that road. “Not a bit. It’s just relaxing.”

“Like when they shampoo you at the hair salon?” Donna offered. “That always gives me goosebumps.”

“Very much like that,” Sherlock affirmed.

“All right then,” Donna said cheerfully. “Whatever blows your skirt up.” She moved to replace the cap on the face cream, stopped herself, dipped two fingertips in. “Isn’t it funny—did you notice?—how you can feel your fingers sort of bounce back off this stuff?” she asked. With her clean hand, she swept his fringe aside (it returned mostly to where it started) and Sherlock closed his eyes as her fingers brushed across his forehead. She circled her fingertips against each other, then swept them across his cheeks in round, broad strokes. Sherlock did not move to stop her, sat passively and let his eyes fall closed. “It’s unfair, what beautiful skin you have. Do you even have to shave?” She traced his cheekbones with her fingertips, blending the cream into Sherlock’s skin. Donna sighed theatrically. “Damn you, you’re too pretty.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up in a grin.

“All right, back to me,” Donna said brightly, and Sherlock’s eyes opened lazily to watch her as she reached for her little pot of eyeliner and the skinny brush she used to apply it. She dampened the brush under the faucet, swirled it along the surface of the gel, and went to work making understated batwings along each lashline.

“My mother had pencils,” Sherlock offered. “Blue pencils.”

“Ah, the ‘80s,” Donna grinned. “This is supposedly some special brownish-coppery colour made especially for gingers. If I use black I look a mess. And now I’ve got more money than sense, I can pretty much be talked into anything the shopgirls offer. They see me coming a mile away.” She fanned her closed eyes with flat hands to dry the liner, then went back into the make-up bag, digging to the bottom. Sherlock made a tiny noise of satisfaction at the sound of her fumblings, and Donna smiled but kept herself from laughing. Whatever blew his skirt up, indeed. “You though,” she said, pulling out a pencil and uncapping it, “You can get away with black, like Marc Bolan. Do you know who he was?” Sherlock shook his head. “Nevermind, but he was gorgeous.” She held the pencil up in front of her and gave him a questioning look. By way of reply, Sherlock closed his eyes and lifted his chin.

“Ooh, fun!” Donna squealed. She steadied Sherlock’s face with her hand on his chin, and went to work streaking black kohl along his upper eyelid, then smudging it with the tip of her pinky. “OK?” she asked. Sherlock hummed affirmatively. “Look up.” He did as he was told and she lined his lower lids. “Now blink blink blink. Yummy. You look like a rock star.”

She handed him the pencil and its little cap. “You can have that; it doesn’t work for me.” Sherlock slid the cap on and off repeatedly, making little popping noises each time it was removed. Donna removed a compact and a big, fluffy brush from the make-up bag. “One thing I’ll say for this pregnancy lark, my skin has never looked better.”

Sherlock hummed. “You are sort of sparkly, but you’ve been pregnant the whole time I’ve known you so I have no baseline for comparison.”

“Sparkly?” Donna looked pleased. She circled the brush across the shimmering powder in the compact and swept it across her cheeks, forehead, and nose. “That’s sweet of you to say; thank you. Now this is just shimmery stuff without much colour; I don’t do that bronzer thing, I’d look bonkers. And you’re somehow even fairer than me, so. . .” She swooped the brush across the compact again, but stopped short. “This flies everywhere; I don’t want to ruin your lovely shirt. All the glitter; you’ll look like you’ve been lap-danced.” She looked around for a towel to drape around Sherlock’s shoulders, but before she could make a move to do so, he had unbuttoned his shirtcuffs and another button near his neck, and yanked the shirt up over his head and off. He tossed it into John’s empty sink, closed his eyes and tilted his face up toward her again, waiting.

Donna couldn’t help laughing—just a bit—this time. “Eager beaver,” she jested quietly. She took in the now-shirtless Sherlock, with ropy, muscled shoulders; well-defined arms; impossibly perfect chest and flat stomach. “Blimey, who knew this was all going on under there?”

Sherlock opened one eye, briefly looked down at his own chest. “It makes the clothes look better.”

Donna smiled, “Oh, yes, it’s all about the clothes with you, isn’t it?”

“Clothes are important,” Sherlock said, his face tipped upward and eyes closed once again. “First impressions, communication of status, a certain level of care with one’s appearance denotes seriousness, attention to detail—“

“You wear clothes like a weapon, Sherlock Holmes,” Donna said knowingly. “Don’t think you can get over on me with the philosophy.” She swept the brush full of shimmer across Sherlock’s forehead and cheeks, shook off what was left, and lazily dragged the soft bristles of the brush along his jaw, under his chin, down his nose, and across his forehead again from temple to temple as she talked. “Anyway, when your armour comes off, the boys must go wild.”

Sherlock hummed, partly with sleepy pleasure, partly in protest. “I’ve no interest in what boys go wild for, Donna,” he intoned, his voice a husky whisper as she drew concentric circles, bigger and bigger, then closing down again, on the sides of his face with the fluffy brush. “I like _men_.”

“Well, we have that in common. Been with a lot of men, have you?” she asked, all girls together, slumber party casual.

“What constitutes a lot? Do that again.” She started a slow sweep from Sherlock’s chin, clockwise along his jaw, up his cheek, across his forehead, and down the other side. “How many men have _you_ been with?” he mumbled, sounding as if he might fall asleep.

“More than some, not as many as others. My mate Vicki, the birthday girl, she’s a right ol’ slag!” She laughed, started an anti-clockwise journey around Sherlock’s upward-tilted face. “Two long-term; six others.”

“So more than thirty would be a lot.”

“Indeed!” She wasn’t judging, she was only saying.

“And more than fifty?”

Donna traced down his nose from the bridge to the tip. “You’re a right ol’ slag, too,” she joked. With a final flourish of the brush off his chin, she tossed it back in the bag and Sherlock opened his eyes, which were bleary and a little bloodshot, as if he were just waking up. “I suppose it’s different for men,” she mused, “Gay men especially.”

“I really wouldn’t know.”

“Fifty?” Donna asked, with a concerned look crossing her face. Sherlock jerked one thumb upward a few times, indicating the number was even higher. “But, how old are you?” She was trying to calculate it in terms of lovers-per-year but quickly got lost, given the missing variable.

“A lady never tells,” Sherlock joked. He hesitantly reached once again for the red nail varnish, opened it, lifted the brush from the jar and watched a thick bead like a drop of blood cling, hover, and fall. He stroked the colour thickly over one pinky nail, eyes narrowed in concentration.

“You’re no lady,” Donna grinned as she blinked her lashes against a mascara wand. “Any long term ones? Like actual boyfriends?” she asked. She fished out an eye shadow palette and began swiping pigment across her eyelids.

“One when I was a teenager,” Sherlock said, turning his fingers to examine the newly-painted nail. “A colleague of my father’s.”

Donna sucked in her breath.

“I know,” Sherlock said, dismissing her concerns. “His wife found out; the divorce ruined him, and my father tried to send me to Australia, but my mother wouldn’t have it.”

“Who else would be around to admire her while she did this?” Donna offered, with a ta-da gesture. “Mummy’s baby.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, humouring her.

“Then when I was twenty-three: I had a deeply debauched love affair with a proper hard man—a boxer, Northern--and we quickly descended into drugs-madness. He overdosed. Died.”

Donna stared, shocked by his casual recitation. “I’m sorry. That was a bad time for you.”

Sherlock shrugged. “He robbed me first, to buy the heroin he overdosed with; I try to focus on that bit so I don’t sink into a maudlin sulk when I think of it. Which I don’t, much, anymore.”

Donna packed some pale bronze eye shadow onto a tiny sponge brush and moved toward Sherlock, steadying herself with a hand on his shoulder. “All right, Gorgeous, it’s your go again.” Sherlock closed his eyes and Donna went to work stroking on shadow in a glittery haze of bronze, cinnamon, and cream, then blended them all into a blur with another fluffy brush. Sherlock hummed langourously and his shoulders shuddered a bit, as she went.

Donna rearranged his fringe again with quick fingers. “You’re sure it’s nothing like an orgasm?” she half-joked.

“I promise,” Sherlock slurred, leaning his head into the pressure of her fingers. Donna kept picking at bits of his hair and rearranging them for longer than was strictly necessary—Sherlock was practically purring—then leaned down and whispered into his ear, “Time for the salon, Pet.”

“Wednesday,” he replied, grinning, eyes still contentedly closed.

“That’s between you and me, I promise,” she replied, then went back into the make-up bag for a tube of lipstick. “Iced Spice for me,” she said, and applied a swath of it to her lips, straight from the tube. She rubbed her lips together and blew a kiss at her reflection. “For you, though. . .” She dug around a bit and withdrew a black lipstick tube. “Mary Quant, don’t know what I was thinking, everything about it is wrong for me—too dark, purpley fuchsia nonsense, too shiny—but, you know, impulse purchase. Go like this,” She opened her mouth in a small O and Sherlock mimicked her. She used a little brush to paint the edges of his lips, then filled in from the tube. “Too pretty!” she protested with a smile. “Damn you again!” She pinched his earlobe.

Sherlock looked drunk: boneless and slouchy, his mouth upturned, his eyelids heavy.

“Oh, I have. . . wait here.” Donna vanished into her walk-in closet, returned with an Alexander McQueen silk scarf—black with white skulls, the real thing, not a knockoff—and looped it around Sherlock’s neck, arranging it with carefully considered thoughtlessness. “Total! and complete! rock star!” she enthused.

She ran the taps and started to wash her hands. “Oops, almost forgot.” She stuck her index finger in her mouth midway between the first and second knuckles, closed her lips around it and dragged her finger back out, then rinsed the resultant lipstick stain off her finger. “Keeps it from getting on your teeth,” she explained to Sherlock, who was admiring his glam-rock face in the mirror from every angle he could manage without leaving his comfortable slouch on the stool. “Here, open,” Donna ordered. Sherlock let his lips part and Donna stuck her finger in his mouth. “Close.” She dragged her finger out, rinsed it again. “If John could see _that_ ,” she muttered. “Bit vulgar, I suppose.” Sherlock smirked. “And you’re still not my type,” Donna teased.

“I was about to say the same,” Sherlock replied casually.

Donna checked her watch. “Well, I’m off. John should be along any time n—“

“Hullo!” John called from the foyer. “Are you in or did I miss you?”

“Just on my way out,” Donna called back to him. She cast a last glance at Sherlock who did look--in his shimmering face of make-up and slash of deep-fuchsia lipstick, shirtless with the skull-patterned scarf around his neck and over one shoulder—like a David Bowie hanger-on circa 1973, and patted his cheek. “This was fun; we’ll do it again sometime,” she promised.

“Good,” was all the reply Sherlock made.

Donna raised her voice, calling to John as she exited the bath, “How’s your day, Sweetheart?”

She met him in the hallway as he approached the bedroom and they exchanged an air-kiss so as not to mess her newly-arranged face. “Fine, thanks. Sherlock and I will probably go back to Baker Street tonight, after dinner. I made a reservation at that new place we were talking about.”

“Let me know how it is,” Donna said lightly, checking her handbag for “MILK”: Money, ID, Lipstick, Keys.

John leaned in, put his hand on her bottom. “You look gorgeous, by the way,” he said. “I could make an excuse to come back here, if you think. . .” He grinned devilishly, “You know, if you won’t be too tired after the party.”

Donna smiled. “On a related note, Doctor Watson,” she murmured, close to his ear. “I’ve left you something in the bedroom I think you’ll like.”

John narrowed his eyes, but his smile persisted. “What could that be, I wonder?”

“Oh, it’s just a pretty little tart,” Donna said.

“What? In the bedroom?” John was equal parts playing along and puzzled.

“And I’d ask you to save me something,” she patted the front of his trousers, “But I don't imagine you'll have anything left for me.”

John cocked his head to the side. “All right, now I’m both aroused, _and_ confused,” he admitted with a  little laugh. “And a little hungry? Is that possible?”

Donna started toward the flat’s front door. “Bye-ee!” she singsonged, and waved to him over her shoulder. Once the door shut behind her, John shrugged slightly and turned around toward the bedroom.

Sherlock slouched sideways against the bedroom doorframe, half-closed eyes meeting John’s as he raised his eyebrows questioningly and made a mild gesture indicating a wish for approval.

“A pretty tart, indeed. Jesus,” John breathed, and reached for Sherlock’s slim waist with one hand. “That’ll do nicely.”

 

-END-

 

**Author's Note:**

> To learn more about ASMR: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Autonomous_sensory_meridian_response
> 
> Please comment if you have any interest in hearing this story as a (whispered?) podfic.


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